


Silver Lining

by GufettoGrigio



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Probably too sweet for them but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-06 13:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19064071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GufettoGrigio/pseuds/GufettoGrigio
Summary: There is a scar just above the hollow of Mika’s throat.





	Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

> In case it's not clear from the summary, I mention Mika's accident in Adelaide. As this fic would be set in 2001, I don't go into particular details but if nightmares or mentions of blood is something you are uncomfortable with, please don't read or skip a paragraph :)

There is a scar just above the hollow of Mika’s throat.

It’s no more than a fleck of silver, a thin line fading away into the background of his already pale skin. People don’t usually notice it, hidden as it is behind the neck of his overalls. Here, in the first light of the morning, with Mika shirtless and quietly asleep next to him, Michael cannot take his eyes away. He hesitates a moment, fighting against himself only to give in, carefully shifting to extricate one of his arms from their tangle of limbs.

He runs his fingers along the scar, feather light. He doesn’t want to wake Mika. Even after so many years together, he is not sure how the man would take it.

_Close. He had been so, so close._

Mika stirs and Michael pulls back.

_____

1995 was a shit year. Fresh on the tail of an even more hellish one, it went on to unravel in some decidedly terrible ways; ways not even two consecutive Championships could fix. Michael remembers watching Mika double over when his appendicitis hit and the pain he tried to mask for days until they had to drag him to the hospital. There wasn’t quite a _them_ , back then, just the sparks of the wildfire that would come in the following years and if privately (and only privately) Michael was starting to admit that he did not really want Mika out of any race ever...well, how bad could just this once be?

_It’s not like he was going to die._

Oh, how desperately he had regretted that thought less than a month later, when he got told who exactly had managed the red flag at Adelaide.

_____

Adelaide is the magic word. When Mika wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and shaking so badly Michael has more than once left bruises on his skin while trying to stop him from falling off the bed, Mika just says _"Adelaide_ ” like it’s a curse and Michael doesn’t ask anything else. Mika wants to forget it, needs to forget it. He never quite manages.

“I remember the beginning of it, the crash itself” - Mika tells the journalist, still cool and collected like he is talking about something mildly inconvenient. _It rained today. My favourite coffee shop was closed. I almost died._

“I remember the beginning and nothing else.” - Mika says with a forced smile. The press is happy with that. Michael had been too, until he saw the night terrors. What Mika dreams about is not the crash, not per se. He dreams of being trapped, of being unable to breathe. He dreams of the blood spilling out of his mouth, filling his helmet and painting his world in red.

How does one forget that colour?

_____

“I am going to retire this season.” - Mika whispers one night, standing on the door of the kitchen in Michael’s motorhouse.

Michael nearly drops the cup he is washing. He whips around.

Mika recoils, his fingers suddenly tight on the door frame. It’s so unlike him, it stops dead in its tracks whatever ill-formed thought Michael had. Mika is his rival, the one person that never failed to stand up to him no matter what move or mind game he pulled, on or off the track. They understand each other, they are reckless with each other. Fear has no place between them.

_I am not going to hit you_ \-  is what Michael’s instincts suddenly supply, his lips almost moving around the words. He stops.

It's such a stupid thing to think. He has never raised a finger to Mika, never. And Mika knows it. So, how can that be it? Then there’s a flash, a memory of Ayrton and Alain, of death glares on podiums and screaming matches that could be heard all the way outside the garages and he feels suddenly sick. Anger doesn't stick to them the same way, it doesn't turn to bitterness - Michael could probably chuck the cup at Mika's head and it would be fine. It's not the anger Mika fears. It's the resentment, the rejection, the poison. Is this going to end more than just his racing career?

Michael sets down the cup.

"What did Ron say?"

"He doesn't know yet."

_Oh._

_____

They don’t speak of it again that night. They have learned early on that rushing is best left on the track - outside, they take their time. And right now that’s something Michael desperately needs. Time.

He is not surprised - he can admit that much. Mika’s flame has been flickering more and more this past season. It was maybe an even longer time coming. It does nothing for Michael’s shock nor for the stubborn voice telling him that Mika is _his_ and that his place is at his side. On the track. On the podium. There, just there. Always within arm reach.

The problem is: can Michael keep him there?

_____

Mika speaks with Ron. Ron who, of course, immediately starts trying to reason with him, offering a sabbatical instead.

“Maybe” - Mika says.

Ron doesn’t look convinced and neither is Michael. With the ever-present echo of the magic word in the ears of those who know him, a sabbatical feels like a half-hearted, half-assed attempt at best and that's just not Mika.

It only leaves the problem all the more open.

Now, everyone knows that Michael Schumacher's approach to problems is that what he can’t solve straight on, he is arrogant enough to circumvent. Twist. Bend. That’s his style. When things don’t go like he wants them to, he’ll just gamble with the odds and take the risk to _make_ them. He'll crash into them if he has to. Mika, as always, is the goddamn exception.

Mika doesn’t bend to any of his wishes, just gracefully concedes at most, sometimes. Mika is stubborn. Mika is prideful. Mika is brave, like all of them are, like you must be with the job they do. Mika has wings: the Flying Finn to Michael’s Rain Master, as they call them. They are not so different, the two of them. Not as the press sometimes portrays them.

_Oh, you are going to bring the storm_ \- Mika’s eyes had told him across an F3 circuit, in what feels like a whole different era - _Then I’ll fly straight through it_ .

That spark of obsession never faded. The glint, in those blue, blue eyes:  _I_ _will_ _pass you today._

But Mika is also quite self-aware: Adelaide put a glass over his candle and the oxygen is slowly running out. Melbourne surely did nothing to help. Mika’s heart is a driver’s heart and it might strive to chase and be chased, but it’s still a heart made of glass and it cracked. No amount of champagne and checkered flags will repair that. Tape is a temporary fix. Is it surprising it’s not sticking anymore?

Michael doesn’t know where that leaves him.

_____

They race. Mika wins. It was a good run and even though the loss stings, Michael doesn’t find it in himself to be upset with Mika. It’s the way it is between them: the pride they take in each other skills might not be enough to make the burn of disappointment disappear, but it’s enough to keep it at bay. It helps that Mika’s smile is blinding, his eyes bright.

All of a sudden Michael finds himself pushed against the wall of the stairs leading to the podium. It’s reckless - crazily dangerous would be an even more appropriate description - but it’s good, so good. Michael pulls Mika closer and kisses him back. For a moment, retirement is a thing from the past.

_____

It doesn’t last. Michael wakes up alone less than a week later, the bed cold beside him. He rolls out of it, trying to find either pants or a t-shirt. The hotel room is dark; the silence fills every corner and Michael wonders for a moment if Mika went back to his own room. It’s a thought that pricks unkindly at the back of his neck: it’s been years since they used to sneak out of each other’s bedrooms before sunrise. Surely, they are both past the 5.00 am walks of shame through hotel hallways.

He looks around. As his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness he finally realizes the door of the ensuite is firmly shut - Michael is sure he left it ajar before going to bed to let out the steam from the shower. He raises his hand to knock then hesitates and pushes down the handle instead. It’s not locked.

Mika is a silhouette of white against the moonlight. Braced on the windowsill, with the window open and wearing only one of his white McLaren t-shirt, he looks like he belongs somewhere that’s not here, not in a cramped hotel bathroom but up there by the moon, ready to take flight. Michael’s breath catches in his throat and he leans heavily on the door to push it close. Mika just takes another drag from his cigarette and doesn’t protest when he comes closer.

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It's  _West_ McLaren. Get off my case.” It’s meant as joke, but there’s a bite to Mika’s words that sends an unplesant shiver down Michael's back. The prickling feeling is back. Michael sits on the floor, letting the silence fall heavy between them. Mika goes on smoking and doesn’t offer to share. Michael doesn’t ask him to. It’s only when the Finn snuffs out the butt and flicks it out the window that Michael finds his voice again.

“We are too old to be smoking in the bathroom like teenagers, Mika.”

“No.” - Mika says - “ _I_ am too old.”

Michael shakes his head. He doesn’t agree. He doesn’t share the feeling. He is just getting started. But here in the moonlight...he might be able to understand at last.

He reaches for Mika, letting his hands close around what part of him he can get to. “Come back to bed, engel.”

Mika goes.

_____

Belgium is not bad. Michael wins. Mika looks about ready to kick his car but still gets in fourth. Two weeks later it’s Monza and this time it’s Michael’s turn to arrive fourth. He doesn’t even need to hear the broadcasts to know. Mika never finished the race, his gearbox giving up on him on lap 7; McLaren finally announces his rumored sabbatical.

Michael finds Mika in his room later that evening, while David is trying to convince the Finn that tequila shots are a perfectly reasonable fix for mechanical issues. It’s been one of those races for McLaren, after all.

“Two championships enough for you?” - Michael quips before he is even fully through the door.

David grimaces, makes a show of taking the bottle of tequila - _You know where to find me later if you need it_ \- and then promptly vanishes. Now that they are alone, Michael doesn’t hesitate in closing the steps separating them. This time Mika stands his ground.

“So?”

Mika chuckles. “Maybe. Though that’s not something I expect you to understand.”

Michael grins as he slips his arms around the Finn, drawing him close. They say the night brings good counsel and maybe that's what happened. Or maybe it's just that Michael has had time to think it over, sort out where he stands. Either way, he came here already knowing he will let Mika get his way this time. It’s no secret between them that he loves the man and no matter how much it hurts him or how bitter losing him on the track will be, Michael does not want to risk Adelaide 2.0 just because Mika’s heart is not in it. Still, if he is going to let Mika get away with it _eventually_ , that’s all the more reason to make him pay hell for it first. Mind games are his thing after all...why not push the Finn around a bit?

“If you are done with it, if you are bored, if you are scared...why not leave after Melbourne?”

Mika stares at him, unimpressed.

Michael stares back.

Mika sighs.

“Will it settle it, if I say it? Soothe your insecurities, stroke your ego and all that?”

“Maybe. I mean, maybe four World Championships are not _quite_ enough…”

Mika just shakes his head from where he has his face pressed into Michael’s neck. _Unbelievable._ He is smiling - Michael can feel it against his skin - yet all at once he finds himself worried about dragging this on any further. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that smile were to freeze, if silence were to fall. They have been joking so far but Michael is well aware this is no joke

“Mika...” - Michael calls.

“I wanted to race Silverstone.” - Mika interrupts him - “I wanted to race Indianapolis. _And_ I wanted to race _you_.”

Then he promptly ducs when Michael tries to kiss him.

_____

There is a scar just above the hollow of Mika’s throat.

It’s no more than a fleck of silver, a thin line fading away into the background of his already pale skin. People don’t usually notice it but it’s never far from Mika’s mind. Michael will never admit it, but it’s never too far from his mind either. Here, in the first light of the morning, with Mika shirtless and quietly asleep next to him, Michael can’t deny the way something lets loose in his chest at the knowledge that there will be no more Adelaides. He runs his fingers along the scar, feather light. He doesn’t want to wake Mika, their wake up call is still hours away after all.

For two of the fastest people on the planet, they have both learned to take their time with each other. Now, Michael plans to take full advantage of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I got stuck watching some kind of F1 interview show with my grand-father, got nostalgic and then disappeared somewhere inside the rabbit hole that is the early-2000s LJ. This is what came out. If someone is still wandering around this corner of the internet and wants to let me know what they think, you are very welcome! :)


End file.
